It's only treacherous. The blade is cut so fine; the inertia becomes so implacable; the velocity, so redundantly contingent, and so delicately distributed, with every single stroke a permutation and premonition of disaster, defined. The effrontery of proposing "8" to the gods of mathematics as an indivisible number (which is fine, when you're harmonising Byrd in surplice, but not when keening your guts out to prevail against someone whose only difference from you, is his boat).
The crude (some think) refrain of the roundelay, recited numbingly until nothing is funny anymore, nothing is true anymore, nothing can breathe anymore, except that nobody lost.
You are orange - but, no, you are crimson - and how we recognise each other, Cocteau foretold. "Damn, I love this water!"
How did they help each other to be who they are?
Which is the provenance of the other? Where does it begin, where does it end?
Is the inheritance of actual sport something other, than our benison and blueprint - always assuming, there is Aristotle - for the dissolution of irrational enmities? Is its genius not, that we cannot be tolled, apart?
I apologise, fondly to my friends, and helplessly to strangers, for resorting to techniques they teach at someplace blue. But 'she was yar,' and this is for that virtue.